


Assurance

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bed-sharing, Fluff, Friends to more, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not so much the ‘you’re half-dead, you wanker,’ or even the broken ribs, the hairline fracture of the pelvis, the dislocated shoulder <em>and</em> knee, and the wrenched ankle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assurance

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by a tumblr post about bed-sharing out of necessity becoming habit and then one day, things, yanno, change. I don't remember who posted it, but it spoke to me, and thus this happened.
> 
> (Although sometimes during writing this I couldn't help thinking, "wasn't this a line through the whole first arc of the Empath!verse? So.)
> 
> Anyway, this hasn't been beta'd, for which I apologize a little. If you see any egregious errors, you can point them out if you'd like. Otherwise, enjoy! Leave some love.
> 
> As always, I can also be found over on [tumblr](belovedmuerto.tumblr.com).

It’s not so much the ‘you’re half-dead, you wanker,’ or even the broken ribs, the hairline fracture of the pelvis, the dislocated shoulder _and_ knee, and the wrenched ankle. It’s all of those things _plus_ the vicious lung infection that have John Watson storming out of his hospital room, leaving a trail of muttered curses in his wake.

Sherlock hadn’t planned on mentioning the lung infection. It doesn’t _matter_. It’s not important; breathing is boring anyway. He would’ve been fine. Eventually. He always is. What really matters is the case. The Work. What matters is that he’d solved it, that he’d finally figured out who the murderer was, and they’d gone to confront him.

Which, as it turns out, wasn’t the best idea ever. If current evidence is to be believed. And current evidence is Sherlock is half-dead and stuck in hospital, so. Yes. Not a great plan. 

John has other ideas as to what matters, though. And Sherlock needs him to have those ideas, because they’re often things that he forgets about. 

Sherlock leans back in the bed and tries to breathe without coughing or moving his ribs.

\----

Mycroft waltzes in about two hours later, when it is very late indeed. He must’ve been caught up at work. Or waiting so as to catch Sherlock off-guard; his brain is currently too muddled to be able to see clearly which it is. Either way, he’d no doubt timed it thus, so Sherlock would be on the point of panic as to John’s whereabouts, but not yet so far gone as to do further harm to himself.

“How very public spirited of you, brother mine,” Mycroft says without preamble, alluding none too subtly to Sherlock’s being injured in pursuit of a killer. Again. The prat.

Sherlock groans and shuts his eyes. He clutches his phone tight in his fist, willing John to return _any_ of his texts.

“John is in the Costa down the street,” Mycroft adds. He fiddles a moment with his phone, and then hands it to Sherlock.

Sherlock flips quickly through the series of surveillance photos. John is indeed sat in the coffee shop, nursing what is, no doubt, a double tall semi-skimmed latte. Probably decaf, given the lateness of the hour and the stress of the day. They get into scrapes rather a lot but it isn’t all that often that Sherlock does what he did today. He doesn’t like to leave John behind, he doesn’t like nearly dying on John, as he’s certain John doesn’t like when he nearly dies.

Sherlock hands the phone back to his brother with a shrug and a wince at the pain the shrug causes. “It’s fine.”

“I thought you’d want to know he’s safe, given the number of times you’ve texted him.” 

Sherlock glares. “Do you want something, Mycroft?”

“Only the assurance of my own eyes that my little brother is alive and relatively well. Do try to get some rest, Sherlock, those ribs must ache something fierce. And I cannot imagine John has allowed them to give you any narcotic painkillers.”

(Which is true, Sherlock’s had a high dose of nurofen and naught else and his whole body aches in gentle waves timed to his heartbeat.)

Mycroft straightens his already pin-straight waistcoat, buttons his jacket and hangs his umbrella over his arm, and waltzes out just as he’d waltzed in.

Sherlock stares at his phone for a bit, willing John to text him back or better yet, return to his side. Where he belongs. 

John does neither.

Eventually, the enormity of his injuries has its way with him, and he sleeps.

\----

John is there when he wakes, and Sherlock breathes as deep a sigh of relief as he can manage.

\----

John pauses at the bottom of the stairs, shifting his arm around Sherlock and taking a deep breath. Sherlock looks down at him, and he looks up at Sherlock, and they both look up the stairs.

“John?” Sherlock ventures, making his voice just slightly tremulous.

“Yes?”

“I may swoon. You may have to carry me upstairs.” 

Under his arm, John snorts, not buying Sherlock’s act for a single minute. “You do that, and I’m slinging you over my shoulder, ribs be damned. If I’m lucky I’ll splinter one of them and stab you in the heart with your own bone.”

Sherlock chuckles, and John joins in before they both sober and start the arduous seventeen step climb to their flat.

Both of them are winded when they get to the top, Sherlock because of his injuries, and John because of basically carrying Sherlock up the steps. Sherlock had probably been more hindrance than help, though he won’t ever admit to knowing that.

\----

John is bustling around the bed, adjusting the sheets and duvet. He’s _fiddling_ , and Sherlock watches him do it. He’s been ensconced, there’s no other word for it. He’s laid out in his own bed like some sort of virginal sacrifice, or a bride on her wedding night or some other metaphor he doesn’t want to think about right now.

John is fiddling. He’s working up to saying or doing something, and Sherlock is still too muddled in the head to be able to _see_. His lungs have betrayed him, draining him of all but the tiniest bit of energy. He supposes the broken bones and sprains aren’t helping that situation either. Traitorous transport, so easily broken.

Sherlock watches him fuss some more, and then sit on the side of the bed and gather his med kit from where he’d left it next to the night table. Sherlock suffers in something somewhat resembling silence as John takes all of his vitals. If John sits listening to his heart for longer than necessary, neither of them mentions it.

When he’s finished, he sits back. Sherlock blinks at him. He’s weary now, and he finds he actually wants to sleep for a while. He hates this weakness of his body, this betrayal, but he has no choice but to indulge it for now.

John is muttering to himself at this point, something about getting a lilo, and it dawns on Sherlock--stupid, he’s so stupid like this.

“John, you’re being ridiculous.”

John blinks at him.

“There’s plenty of room if you’re going to insist on being that close.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Sherlock. I can get the cushions from the sofa for tonight, and I can see about getting us a lilo tomorrow. I just--I’m worried about your ribs.” He shrugs. “The coughing. The fractures.”

“No, John. In the bed. Just sleep in the bed. The cushions will make your back and your shoulder ache, and you’ll be cross all day tomorrow. The bed is plenty large enough for both of us.”

“Oh.” John blinks at him, and Sherlock just looks back at him. He can feel his own eyes starting to go owlish as he tries to stay awake.

“You don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I mind, John. You know this.”

John smiles. “I do, yes. Well. All right. I’ll just--” He stands, looks around, awkward. “I’ll be back.”

Sherlock falls asleep listening to John moving around upstairs. He has John’s evening routine memorized by now; it has rarely changed in the years they’ve known each other.

\----

He shifts a little and turns his head in John’s direction when he slips into bed beside him, not quite waking up.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock, it’s just me,” filters through, and he slips under.

\----

It is not awkward waking up with John beside him. 

It is also much easier to get tea that way.

\----

Sherlock recovers, slowly. He doesn’t heal quite as fast as he used to. Time and tide wait for no man, not even Sherlock Holmes.

By unspoken agreement, John never brings up getting a lilo or sleeping on the sofa cushions again. And he shares Sherlock’s bed every night. 

Even more impressive, Sherlock doesn’t really complain all that much about being mostly bed-bound and having John breathing down his neck to sleep every night.

A few days into his convalescence, Lestrade comes by with a box of cold cases and dumps them in the lounge with a gesture and a “Have at it, Sherlock. Good luck, a few of these are over a decade old.” It’s completely unprompted on Sherlocks’ part, and even on John’s, but Sherlock doesn’t look this particular gift horse in the mouth. He merely says an extremely prim, “Thank you,” and starts picking through the files. 

Later, John sends Mycroft a text that Sherlock pretends he doesn’t know about.

\----

“You’re doing much better,” John says as he takes the stethoscope off, wrapping it around his neck. “I can’t hear much congestion at all. How do your ribs feel?”

“All right,” Sherlock replies. 

“That’s good. I’m almost ready to clear you for cases. But only threes and fours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock crosses his arms, and it’s a measure of how sick he’s been, how much his ribs have ached, that he nods instead of arguing with John. Sometimes, he does feel his own mortality. Occasionally, anyway.

John gives him a searching look, but doesn’t say anything else. He knows what Sherlock is thinking as well as Sherlock does, probably. With a nod, he gets up and leaves the room.

For a few minutes, Sherlock thinks that this is the end, and he finds himself unhappy with that. They never spoke about the fact that they’ve been sharing a bed for weeks, and now they’re not going to speak about no longer sharing a bed? 

He listens with a frown as John moves around in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then heads upstairs. His nebulous unhappiness turns to confusion when he hears John come back downstairs, although he might just be in need of the loo. 

But he comes back into Sherlock’s room, dropping his dressing gown on the bed and heading into the bathroom. Sherlock listens more, to John brushing his teeth and washing his face, his normal before bed ritual. 

He shuts his eyes and scoots down in the bed, on what he thinks of as his side, when John comes back into the room. 

John climbs into bed with him, and neither of them says anything about it.

\----

Things continue on that way. They emphatically don’t talk about the fact that John is still sharing Sherlock’s bed, despite it no longer being even remotely necessary. 

If some days Sherlock wakes up with his nose dangerously close to John’s hair, the scent of him lingering in his nostrils, he doesn’t mention that either.

He doesn’t think John knows. He probably wants to keep it that way.

\----

John’s dressing gown takes up residence on one of the hooks behind Sherlock’s door.

They don’t speak about it.

He continues to wreak havoc with Sherlock’s sock index, but Sherlock finds he doesn’t particularly mind, when he finds John’s socks mixed in with his own.

John’s pillow finds its way onto Sherlock’s bed, and stays there.

Sherlock doesn’t mind.

They don’t speak about it. None of it.

Sometimes they wake up curled around each other, into each other, twined together. They don’t talk about that either.

\----

Sherlock opens the eye that isn’t smashed into his pillow, and his vision is filled with John. John, whose head is approximately three inches from his own, practically on the same pillow as his. He can smell John, sweat and warmth and comfort and sour morning breath, as he sighs and shifts closer.

This is not one of those mornings where Sherlock wakes up tangled up in John, but this proximity is just as dangerous. He wants to bury his nose in John’s hair, in his neck, and breathe him in until his lungs are full of John, until John flows through his veins.

Oh, this is so dangerous. It leaves a dull ache, deep in his gut, of anticipation, of fear, of longing.

John opens his eye. Sherlock blinks at him, and doesn’t move.

For ages, they stay like that, each facing the other, each with head against pillow, looking at each other with their one open eye.

John is the first to move. Closer. Sherlock blinks and then shifts his head, a little closer. John blinks at him, and shifts again. 

Their noses are touching now, and John smiles a little. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and smiles back. For a another age, they just look at each other, neither speaking, neither moving. There’s no need, no need for words right now. Just breathing together, isolated together in Sherlock’s bed, alone in a world, just the two of them.

John moves again, and Sherlock can feel his breath ghost across his lips, and then the barest, briefest touch of John’s lips against his. 

Sherlock’s mouth opens, in surprise, in awe. John presses just a bare millimeter closer and just like that, he’s kissing Sherlock.

And just like that, Sherlock is kissing him back, awful morning breath and all.

“All right?” John asks, after an age of kissing. Sherlock feels as though he’s melted into the bed, into John, and John has his arms around Sherlock, his hands everywhere, in his hair, under his shirt, against his skin.

Sherlock moves now, closer to John, weaving their legs together, leaning into John, and John shifts so he’s more on his back, pulling Sherlock over with him, and they’re kissing again, still. Sherlock pours everything he’s ever felt for and about John into his kiss with a moan, and John takes it all, and gives just as much back. His hands run up Sherlock back, cup his face with infinite tenderness, and slide into his hair. 

Eventually, they break apart, both of them breathing heavily. Sherlock shuts his eyes against the overwhelming amount of sentiment he doesn’t want to admit to feeling at that moment, and leans his head against John’s.

John pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s hair and wraps his arms around Sherlock, holding him close. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” John admits, quietly.

Sherlock makes a sound somewhere near a sob, and John’s arms tighten. 

“What took us so long?” he murmurs.

“We’re both idiots,” John replies, and they both laugh, and Sherlock lifts his head and kisses John again. He has no plans on stopping. Ever.


End file.
